Counting Numbers
by Girl number 1
Summary: A number is never just a number. Trory set after Chilton. Oneshot


**Story title: Counting numbers**

**Alternative title: Prison of regrets **

**By: Girl number 1**

The number was 23. This year it was 23. Next year it would be 24. With sadness she knew she'd keep count until the day she died. It had been 23 years ago. 23 years ago she had been captured. 23 years later she was still being held captive. The physical and emotional pain was hell to endure.

"I'll be home by midnight!" Her youngest son Michael called out. She wondered if she'd ever be able to look at her kids. To see them for who they really were. To see Michael for just Michael and Emma for just Emma. It was worst with her eldest son. She could never look at Peter without seeing him. It was never Peters eyes she saw. It was his eyes. Shameful she thought of their kids. The children they could have had. The home they could have built. The life they could have lived.

"Who do you see?" Her eldest son had asked once. He had caught her staring again. The question had harboured deep inside of him ever since childhood. Whenever she'd look at him, he'd feel invisible. She saw something in him that scared him. She saw someone in him that wasn't him. Even at his graduation at Chilton she saw someone else graduate. "A memory" Rory had answered a sad smile gracing her lips. She continued to stare at him without emotion. Her mind drifting several years back. He felt possibly worse. He was just a memory to her. Another person. He didn't know if he could take it any more. Peter was a ghost of the past. Sometimes he'd linger in front of the mirror a little longer then usual. Wondering who he resembled. Wondering if his mother would ever acknowledge his presence. If she ever could see him for him. To look at him without the regret in her eyes. Without that sad smile. If she ever could love him... He hated being a reminder. A reminder that caused her so much pain just by birth. His own mental prison was guarded by a man he did not even know. A boy he would forever live in the shadow of. Peters number was 19. He'd been born nineteen years ago into an identity that was not his own.

At night she'd feel the shackles grow heavier. It was during moonlight her anger would show. Like a werewolf it'd tear her skin to unleash the beast. Questions of what ifs, could have, should have, would have, shouldn't and didn't played on a loop in her mind. These questions guarded her cell. It was these questions that kept her from escaping. Her cell mates tormented her, teased and taunted her. She shared her tiny little prison with echoes of the past. Memories that wouldn't leave her alone. 23 years of hell and because of what? All because of a boy and a past that wouldn't leave her alone.

"Rory!" The scream came from upstairs. "Rory, RORY!" She ran out of her study. Her instincts went off like police sirens. The screams of her husband increased. Her slippers muffled the sound of her hurried steps upon the stairs. Her stomach filled with dread as she saw the light at the end of the dark hall. It seemed to stretch on forever.

"RORY!" Her husband called desperately through chocked tears. The dread turned into horror as she saw the open door of Peters bedroom. The light from the bedroom cast shadows out into the hall. "Oh god" Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. Her knees buckled under her. Logan continued to let out inhuman screams. He held Peters lifeless body to his chest.

Her eldest son lay in his own puddle of blood. His face and blond hair was covered in blood. It seemed crazy to think, but she thought for a split second how she was going to get the blood out of his carpet.

23 years ago she met a man on her flight to Hartford. The man let her borrow his newspaper. It was that newspaper that became her bane. Page 14 had a small add searching for a secretary for Tristan DuGey. 23 years ago her mental prison was finished built. Ironically enough the medic concluded her son had been dead for 23 minutes. Her prison cell became smaller. It was perhaps then that she saw him. She saw her son for who he was and not an echo of a past mistake.

Now it was he had to bear the cross, Michael thought. He caught his mother staring at him a couple of weeks after Peters funeral. Michael had been busy practising his lines for his role as Romeo. Unlike Peter he didn't ask. He already knew. He'd forever bear the image of a past love and a dead son. Rory caught her son staring back at her. It surprised her. His green eyes bore into her blue ones. They were cold, accusing and sorrowful. Rory was now an image herself. She bore the image of a mother who murdered her son all because of a course of action she did not take 29 years ago. She would bear this image until the day she died. The number was 29 for Michael. It had become a game of self hate, remembrance, regret and accusations. A game of keeping count. The numbers grew and as the years passed by several others were included.

For Tristan who was new to the game, the number was 2 and 29. Two years ago he read an article about a famous TV reporter and her two sons committing suicide. 29 years ago he had done a great deal of foolish things to that same TV reporter. He wished he'd done so many things differently. With the number 2 and 29 clearly in his mind, he started building his own prison cell...

**Author's Note: It's about how a couple of small events lead to bigger ones. The text is free for you to make your own mind. So if you believe it concerns how the aliens are about to take over the world then it is. I'd be glad to hear your take on it and opinions. **

**The significance of each number: **

**23: It has been 23 years since Rory reads Tristan's name in the paper. **

**19: Nineteen years ago Peter was born. **

**29: Rory is 45 years old. It's been 29 years ago since she was sixteen and attending Chilton. **

**2: It's been two years since Tristan read an article about the suicides of Rory and her two sons.**


End file.
